


Reign from Beneath

by howelleheir



Series: The Fallen White Doors [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Mythology/Religion, Alien Sex, Canon Compliant, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fingerfucking, First Time, I'm pretty sure that tag isn't supposed to be literal, Identity Issues, Implied Off-Screen Orgy, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Mutual Non-Con, My First Work in This Fandom, Non-Human Genitalia, Object Penetration, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Power Dynamics, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Guilt, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Politics, Size Difference, Telepathy, Unreliable Narrator, Worldbuilding, Xenolinguistics, Xenophilia, but in this case it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 08:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11032200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: “Entirely unnecessary, I assure you,” Weyoun replied, keeping his gaze locked on Dukat even as two men began to search him. Something about it made Dukat feel uneasy -- almost as if he were the one being thoroughly patted down -- something in the Vorta’s almost imperceptible sway, back and forth, unblinking, like a coiled serpent. “Of course, I understand the need to be cautious. But the Dominion has no quarrel with Cardassia, and I can only hope that this show of goodwill demonstrates that.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a 2k PWP. As you can see, it is not. But don't be fooled -- in spite of the world-building and pseudo-plot and an entire constructed language, this is still pure, gratuitous, self-indulgent, tropey id-fic. My id just wants conlangs and snake metaphors. 
> 
> Canon compliant=compliant with the show, because I haven't read the novels -- though I've cherry-picked some details from them via Memory Alpha/Beta. Anything noncanonical and not mentioned in the end notes probably came from there.
> 
> Huge thanks to @itsweyounsburgernow and the rest of my betas, who shall remain anonymous for now, because I'm not sure if they want to be associated with my lizard-man porn. And especially to @howler32557038, who dutifully read every word at least three times and made the final editing pass in spite of the fact that he doesn't even go here and isn't a fan of weird dick. I think he really loves me, you guys.
> 
> [Credits and language notes are at the end of the final chapter]

Even standing at the helm of a warship, even with all his knowledge and cunning and five centuries’ experience, he felt new-born, not yet settled into his skin.

In a way, it was true; it had been only days since he had emerged from his chamber, wet with a thick, milky fluid that clung to his skin as he was pulled from the silent darkness of the stasis tank. He was uncomprehending then, when they cut the white mesh away from his body and two doctors pulled him up onto shaking legs, leading him to sit under an array of dim blue lamps until the fluid turned to a greyish powder. There was a hiss and a dull sting behind his jaw, toward the bottom of his ear—an injection of some kind. The skin around it felt stretched and tender. They placed some gently-whirring device against his forehead, and within minutes, he remembered.

He was Weyoun.

The fifth iteration.

His predecessor was killed in action, and he was activated to replace him.

The tense situation between the Dominion and the governments of the Alpha Quadrant offered no quarter, and he was sent back into the field immediately, given another squadron to command and orders to patrol the space near the wormhole. He would have preferred a different assignment—he was never especially fond of field duty, and after being vaporized by his last set of subordinates, he had really hoped for a more administrative posting.

But who was he to question his orders?

As the ship completed its first sweep of the sector, just as he was doubting his ability, in his diminished state, to handle the delicate situation on the front, the sensors detected a single cloaked vessel emerging from the anomaly near the Idran system—probably Klingon by the look of the warp signature—and putting off the kind of power fluctuations that suggested it might be on the verge of a catastrophic core breach. All of the lifesigns aboard were Cardassian.

That _was_ unusual.

Weyoun gave the order to intercept and offer assistance. Thanks to the destabilization efforts in the Alpha Quadrant, Cardassia had been embroiled in conflict with the Klingons for months and had been steadily losing ground. They weren’t desperate enough to affiliate themselves with the Dominion—not yet—but it was never too early to plant the seeds of cooperation. This little commandeered bird-of-prey seemed a fine place to start.

“Cardassian vessel,” Weyoun addressed the ship as soon as his hail was answered, “This is Weyoun, commanding the _Tenak’talar_ in service of the Dominion. I’ve detected some frankly...alarming fluctuations from your warp core. If you’ll allow us to tow you into Dominion space, I’d be happy to see that the damage is repaired. There’s a shipyard we could reach in less than a day.”

He switched off his translator and listened carefully to the response in its native Kardasi—not the voice of a mercenary or common pirate; it was too well-bred, the accent too refined, the phrasing too disciplined. “This is Gul Dukat of the _CDS Naprem_ ,” he said. A Bajoran name—on a Klingon ship full of Cardassians. Interesting. “I appreciate your offer, however, we are not in need of assistance.”

Dukat. A name among a handful of Alpha Quadrant players whose profiles all field commanders committed to memory. Extroverted, opportunistic, distrustful, highly suggestible, moderate histrionic tendencies. Still a powerful influence despite his recent fall from grace. The perfect inroad to securing new territory for the Dominion and, if all went well, an ambassadorial assignment for Weyoun.

“If it would make you feel more secure,” Weyoun replied, raising the pitch of his voice ever-so-slightly, subservient and unthreatening, “I will beam aboard your ship as a hostage until the repairs are made.”

The line was silent for several seconds, but Weyoun was patient. The gul was considering his offer—really, he had no choice. His ship was badly damaged and making it back to Cardassian space in their current condition was unlikely.

“Agreed,” Dukat said. “But...only you. No guards, and no weapons.”

Weyoun smiled as he passed his viewer off to the waiting Second, pocketing a transponder crystal just in case. “Of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Vorta’s transporter beam had a strange shimmer to it, its hum higher than Dukat was used to hearing, almost chime-like, and the creature that appeared in its wake was well-matched to its delicacy—slight and fragile-boned with smooth ivory flesh, dusted here and there with an almost pearlescent lilac flush. His wide luminous eyes darted skittishly around the bridge, to the seven Cardassian officers and the two weapons aimed at his chest, even as his pleasant mouth curved into a genial smile.

“Welcome aboard,” Dukat said, taking note of the way Damar’s eyes raked up and down the Vorta’s body, equal parts disdainful and intrigued. He would have to nip  _ that  _ in the bud; an indiscretion of either sort on the glinn’s part could be disastrous for the entire crew in their precarious position. “Normally, we’d hold you in the brig for the duration of this little excursion. But, with how helpful you’re being, that seems...wrong, somehow.”

“And entirely unnecessary, I assure you,” Weyoun replied, keeping his gaze locked on Dukat even as two men began to search him. Something about it made Dukat feel uneasy—almost as if  _ he  _ were the one being thoroughly patted down—something in the Vorta’s almost imperceptible sway, back and forth, unblinking, like a coiled serpent. “Of course, I understand the need to be cautious. But the Dominion has no quarrel with Cardassia, and I can only hope that this show of goodwill demonstrates that.”

Dukat’s men stepped back, satisfied that Weyoun was unarmed, and Dukat came forward, guiding the Vorta toward the bridge door with a palm between his shoulderblades. “Damar, I’m going to show our friend here the layout of the ship. Wouldn’t want him getting lost. You have the bridge.”


	3. Chapter 3

Weyoun was familiar with the layouts of Klingon vessels—and those of most major Alpha Quadrant species—but Dukat’s tour was enlightening nonetheless. All of the little changes the Cardassians had made to the ship were fascinating; various controls had been rerouted to more intuitive locations, entire areas of the ship had been swapped with one another to more closely mirror a similarly-sized Cardassian vessel, and through the door to one of the crew barracks, he could see that they had hung tarps between the beds for privacy. The most striking change, though, was the temperature. The entire ship was running a good deal warmer than the environmental controls should have allowed. Weyoun wondered briefly if they were venting the engines directly into the climate control systems, and how susceptible he was to radiation poisoning, until a brief inspection of the life-support controls revealed that they had simply ripped out the sensors that kept the ambient temperature from rising into their ideal range.

“I need to stop by my quarters before we head back to the bridge,” Dukat said, waving open a door near the far end of the deck. “Follow me, if you wouldn't mind.”

Weyoun broke into a genuine smile. Dukat didn't trust him to stay in the corridor unsupervised, let alone make his way back to the bridge. He didn't seem to realize that a look at his quarters would reveal more about him than whatever reconnaissance he could have done in the same time.

The captain's quarters were relatively large considering the crowding of the barracks—enough space for a Cardassian replicator to be retrofitted into the wall adjacent to the desk, and the bed was quite a bit wider than was usual for a Klingon vessel. Above it hung a vast Cardassian tapestry in blacks and golds showing a family crest in the _Ka’radan_ style. Weyoun didn't entirely understand the tradition, but from what he could gather, such a tapestry was typically woven for a wedding and represented the union of two families. Its presence suggested a certain degree of sentimentality, or possibly even denial, given that he was recently divorced.

His other possessions were arranged with almost archival neatness, but a few things seemed to be given more reverence—a few small ceremonial items, Bajoran, if Weyoun recalled correctly (at least some interest in mysticism despite his culture’s taboo on religion), a collection of Cardassian military rank and division insignia, some quite old (probably familial, strong indications of lineal pride and patriotism), a few paintings of baffling composition, no doubt created by a friend or family member (inflated image of those he held in esteem), several Klingon _d’k tahg_ (comfortable enough with killing to do so in close quarters and to keep mementos of his kills), and, on the bedside table, a small decorative chest.

He glanced at Dukat, whose back was turned, occupied with a data padd. He knew it would be an intrusion, but as it too-often did, his curiosity outweighed his courtesy.

When he opened the chest, he found that it cradled a curious-looking apparatus. Large, egg-shaped, and hollowed out in the center, its base flaring sharply at the bottom.

Weyoun picked it up and turned it over in his hands, trying to puzzle out what it was. Not a sculpture, and not like any ceremonial object he had seen in his study of Alpha Quadrant species; it was cast out of a smooth, slightly pliable material, and had a round touch-dial on the underside. When he dragged his finger along the dial, the object emitted a deep hum.

He froze on instinct at the sudden presence of a body directly behind him, and two large hands closing firmly over his shoulders. He hadn’t even heard Dukat approach. It stirred something in him, something ancient. A prey-animal’s response to finding itself in the grip of an apex predator.

“Have I...offended you?” he asked, his voice breaking a little. He rarely felt afraid of anyone, but they were alone, with no Jem'Hadar to come to his rescue, no time to order emergency extraction, and he could feel the strength in those hands, sliding closer to his neck. They would have little trouble snapping it. And yet, in spite of his fear, it was thrilling. “I was just curious about what this was—I’ve never seen something like it.”

After he spoke, the room was so silent that he could faintly hear Dukat’s powerful heartbeat behind his breastbone, and then he felt a sharp exhale on the back of his neck, sending a jolt through him after those seconds of stillness. It was accompanied by an odd, low, purring laugh.

“I _would_ demonstrate it,” Dukat said, trailing his knuckles lightly along the side of Weyoun’s throat. “But I’m not entirely certain it could perform its intended function on you. Care to find out?”

Weyoun’s uneasiness lingered as Dukat took the object from him, dragging its edge along his belly before pressing the hollow tip firmly between his thighs. He jumped, as much at the sudden recollection of a diagram of Cardassian internal anatomy he’d seen (and the subsequent understanding of the object’s purpose) as at the sensation—strangely metallic, and overstimulating even through his clothing. He clasped a hand around Dukat's wrist—uselessly, but fortunately for him, Dukat relented and switched the object off, returning it to its case and shutting the lid, although he didn't move away.

With the apparent danger averted, Weyoun’s mind went into overdrive. He felt woefully under-read on Cardassian culture, so much so that he couldn’t be confident of any decision. However, both the room and his psychographic profile betrayed Dukat as a lonely man, dependent on others for validation, interested in other species, especially those very different from his own, and strongly sexually-driven. He would gain the greatest advantage by submitting to Dukat’s advance, and in fact, might damage relations irreparably if he did anything to make him feel slighted.

He hoped his smile was convincing as he turned to face him, locking his eyes on Dukat’s even as his hands skittered along his belt, searching until they landed on its buckle at the crest of his left hip and pulled it open with a soft _click._

“Why are you doing that?” Dukat asked.

Weyoun blinked. “You...want to leave your belt _on_?”

“No, not that,” he said, a little impatiently, taking the belt from Weyoun and tossing it onto the bed. “You’re swaying. You did it back on the bridge, too.”

“Hm. I’ve never noticed. I suppose it’s just a nervous habit,” said Weyoun. It was a lie—Vorta were weakly telepathic, just enough to get a sense of what someone might be thinking or to dull their inhibitions a little, and there was a subtle involuntary rocking motion that accompanied the act. It was usually better to conceal the existence of such an ability.

“Oh? I hope I don’t make you nervous.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that exactly,” Weyoun said, fingers trailing lightly over the armor of Dukat’s uniform. Its texture was uniquely pleasing. “It’s just that...you’re a very difficult man to read. I’m not used to having trouble understanding someone’s intentions.”

Dukat gave a throaty little laugh, gripping the back of Weyoun’s neck. “Is that so?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “In that case, let me make my _intentions_ a little clearer…”

With that, he pressed down hard, the strength of his hand easily outmatching Weyoun’s balance. His knees buckled underneath him, and no sooner than he landed hard on the floor, Dukat’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him close while, with the other hand, he opened the front of his trousers.

Weyoun had only found himself in a similar situation once or twice before; his species wasn’t exactly wired to enjoy this sort of intimacy. But luckily, being ambivalent toward sex made it—and the beings that practiced it—absolutely fascinating to him, and he had found that fascination could easily pass for arousal if he made the right noises. However, there was no need to manufacture the quiet little gasp that escaped his lips on seeing Dukat’s body bared.

It was one thing to study an illustration, neat and clinical with every structure labeled in miniscule lettering, but quite another to have the real thing scant inches from his face. No matter how distasteful he found the task at hand, the thrill he got from sating his curiosity outweighed it. He brushed his fingers over the lower third of the subtle, leathery ridge that bisected Dukat’s belly, appreciating the shiver it sent through him. He knew from the anatomical diagrams that the nerves in that ridge were particularly concentrated, and that they ran down its entire length, all the way to where it widened and split around the swollen edges of his vent. He gave a low, humming growl when Weyoun reached it and swept his thumb shallowly along the slick and dilated aperture before pressing briefly inside. He glanced up at Dukat's face—head thrown back, lips tight—and then leaned forward to swirl his tongue experimentally into the split ridge before dipping deeper and flicking upward against the tip of his cock. It felt nothing like what he had expected—supple and perfectly smooth, with the raw tenderness of flesh that spent little time exposed, an interesting contrast to the armored roughness of the rest of his skin. And very sensitive if Dukat’s reaction was any indication; he tightened his grip on Weyoun’s hair and doubled over at the waist, his legs clenching together involuntarily.

Some buried sadistic bent bubbled to the surface, and Weyoun snaked an arm around Dukat’s hips, drawing him closer while his free hand cupped around the protrusion of his cloacal ridge, then closed his lips around the barely-everted head and sucked hard. Between that pressure and a nearly-visible contraction deep in his belly, his vent distended suddenly and, fractions of a second later, his cock broke through into Weyoun’s mouth, scraping over his palate and driving deep into his throat. He took a breath through his nose before sliding his lips further down its length, jaw aching as he reached the thickly-flared base. He was content to let Dukat set the rhythm, and then to learn by trial and error, trying light and then firmer suction, flicking his tongue over the cartilaginous ridge on the underside, swallowing around him when he thrust into his throat, and gauging his reactions to each new stimulus—each unsteady sigh, broken groan, and stuttering tremor guiding him.

Curiously, he let his hand slide over the underside of Dukat’s cock, just where it met his body, and ran the pad of a finger along the slick juncture. With a moderate pressure, the seal gave way, the opening just flexible enough to allow his intrusion. A sharp tug on his hair and the accompanying strangled cry suggested it was welcome, if a little overwhelming. As he matched his hand’s pace to his mouth’s, he raised his eyes to meet Dukat’s, studying the way his brows knitted and his lip curled, the way his jaw clenched. His expression looked almost pained, and then, as if in response to the eye-contact, stunned—an ochre flush spreading up his throat and along the wide ridges on his neck before his back arched and his hips snapped forward, thick, bitter fluid spilling from the head of his cock and seeping from him into Weyoun’s palm.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the Vorta's eyes that had undone him, how needy they looked. His gaze, silently begging, lingered until the last shuddering waves of Dukat's climax washed over him and he released Weyoun's thick, wiry hair to stagger back to the bed, where he sat and caught his breath, watching Weyoun wipe his mouth with the back of an ivory hand.

As he came back to his senses, a knot formed in his stomach. Evidently, Weyoun was dangerous even without his squadron. There was something mesmerizing about him on more than just a figurative level; Dukat certainly had not meant for things to go so far, had only meant to keep Weyoun from stumbling across his  _ geit,  _ but as soon as he got close, felt the warmth radiating from his skin and smelled his sweet, mildly herbaceous scent, all thoughts of intervening went out of him in favor of a strange, hypnotic need.

He would have to be more careful. And in the meantime, he would have to change. Weyoun's somewhat creative technique had made a mess of him.

As he pulled a fresh pair of uniform pants from the compartment under his bed and stripped down from the waist, he felt the Vorta's gaze at his back and turned to find him closer than he'd expected, head tilted as if deep in thought.

“What are you doing?” asked Dukat, dressing a bit more hurriedly. He wasn't one for self-consciousness, but the way Weyoun stared would unnerve anyone—like he was performing a dissection.

“Hm? Oh, just looking. I've never seen someone of your species before now. Not in person, anyway. Your physiology is fascinating.”

“Well, you'll have to study my  _ physiology  _ another time. I need to go back to the bridge,” Dukat said, sweeping a stray strand of hair off of Weyoun's temple. It wouldn't do to bring him back disheveled. “Unless, of course, I can do anything for you? This  _ has  _ been a little one-sided.”

“Ah, no,” Weyoun laughed. “Neither necessary nor possible, I'm afraid. Regardless of my personal interest in the subject, my people are quite incapable of experiencing sexual pleasure.”

_ We'll see about that,  _ thought Dukat before he could remind himself that he had no intention of having another similar encounter with this Vorta, or any other.


	5. Chapter 5

Damar leaned against the arm of his chair, drumming his fingers lightly against the arm. There wasn’t much to be done but stare at the Dominion ship on the screen. Something felt off. Three Klingon vessels attack the _Naprem_ and drive it out of Cardassian space—their every move giving Dukat no choice but to enter the wormhole—and then break off their pursuit. And right on the other side, they’re greeted by Weyoun’s ship and lured into Dominion territory, supposedly for repairs. It was too convenient. Damar had a great deal of affection for Dukat, but he wasn’t blind to the man’s weaknesses; he was susceptible to anyone willing to stroke his ego, particularly if they happened to be an aggressive woman or a submissive man, and that sycophantic little Dominion toady certainly fit the bill. If Dukat dropped his guard, they might all find themselves defenseless and at Weyoun’s mercy.

What’s more, it wasn’t just Dukat the Vorta seemed to have an influence on. The two who had searched him had done so slowly, letting their hands linger, their eyes just a little glazed. It figured that the Dominion would breed their diplomats with a certain overpowering allure—an underhanded tactic and impossible to prove.

The longer Dukat was away from the bridge, alone with that viper, the more uneasy Damar felt. Their return didn't do much to put him at ease; Dukat guided him by the waist now instead of the shoulder, an unmistakable, smug expression on his face, and Weyoun's mouth swollen and luridly pink.

Damar sprang up from his chair, dragging Dukat back into the corridor by the arm, shouldering past Weyoun, who gave a quiet, startled noise and stared, wide-eyed, but had the sense not to follow them.

“Have you lost your mind?!” he hissed as soon as they were out of earshot.

Dukat brushed his hands away with an incredulous look. “Damar,” he chided.

“I'm serious,” said Damar. “You and that damned Vorta, running off to your quarters not five minutes after he got here...that's fast, even for you.”

With a soft chuckle, Dukat clapped him on the shoulder. “Jealousy doesn't become you, my friend.”

“And idiocy doesn't become you,” Damar snapped. “Can't you see when you're being manipulated? Don't you find it the least bit suspicious how _accommodating_ he's being?”

“ _Of course_ it's suspicious,” said Dukat. “No doubt he's got some ulterior motive, but what choice do we have but to accept his help? We barely made it through the wormhole as it is. And besides, whatever his nefarious plans, I doubt they hinge on whether or not he gets on his knees for me.”

Damar cringed at the vivid mental image, but made a quick recovery. “Just try to keep a clear head,” he said.

“Have you ever known me _not_ to?”

“On occasion,” said Damar emphatically.

“Well, then,” Dukat sighed, squeezing Damar’s arm and looking off, troubled. “I'll have you to tell me so. Back to your station.”

“Yes, sir.”


	6. Chapter 6

They were still nine hours out from the shipyard, but the entire crew had been running without sleep for too long, so Dukat had ordered half of them to quarters, himself included. He hoped a little rest would fortify him against whatever it was about Weyoun that made him so pliant. But once he was in bed, his uniform discarded over the back of the desk chair, his mind kept coming back to what had happened, just a few hours ago now, less than two meters away. Weyoun on his knees. Weyoun, with his smooth hands touching firmly, insistently. Weyoun, with his eerie, penetrating eyes. The feeling of his skin, so strangely sleek. The way he had trembled when Dukat touched his soft, white throat. He couldn't tear himself away from the memory.

Damar had been right to worry, as much as Dukat hated to admit it.

And yet…

What did Weyoun hope to accomplish? Why had he chosen Dukat, of all people? He wasn't afraid to admit that he could sometimes get a little carried away when it came to the objects of his affections, but others in higher places were as bad or worse about that, and Dukat was one man with one ship, a skeleton crew, and very little left in the way of influence with anyone but his own men. It couldn't be the bird of prey Weyoun wanted. And Dominion reconnaissance was good enough to tell him that no torture would get any Cardassian military intelligence out of the crew.

_ No _ , he decided—if Weyoun was after intelligence, he would have gone after bigger fish than Dukat. Which raised the question: what  _ did  _ he want?

Could it really be that their meeting was all coincidence? That the Klingon ships had inadvertently driven the  _ Naprem  _ into the Gamma Quadrant, that Weyoun happened to be patrolling at the time, that he was really just taking them to a shipyard for repairs as a gesture of friendship?

That he had accepted Dukat's proposition for no other reason than he  _ wanted  _ to?

Though he couldn’t place why, that idea gave him a little thrill—such a passionless creature, wanting him badly enough to defy his own nature. And he  _ did  _ want him, didn’t he? That look on his face had been proof enough, the need in his eyes, the captivation when he had run his fingers down Dukat’s belly.

Absently, he mirrored the motion, remembering the shock of Weyoun’s silken hands against his bare skin. He felt an ache bloom, low and heavy between his thighs, and followed it to the source, cupping a hand over the swell of his vent before pulling upward, spreading thick precome over its prominance. As his cock emerged into his waiting palm, he let out a sigh that cut through the silent room, but the sound stirred a disturbing sense of self-awareness, as if he could see himself from above.

He gripped the sheet and pulled a hand through his hair in frustration.

The Vorta should have been nothing more than a fleeting conquest—if that—quickly forgotten in favor of more familiar fantasies. So why couldn’t he take his mind off of him? He shifted on the thin mattress, trying to conjure up some other image, something wholly antithetical to the ones that seemed to be stuck in his head.

He called up an old standby: the Major, wrapping her slender thighs around his hips, lowering herself onto him and surrounding him in slick heat, her palms pressing down onto his chest to hold him in place—not so much making love to him as using him to bring herself to ecstasy. But as intriguing as the fantasy was, Kira wouldn’t cooperate; her mouth kept twisting into a pouting little smirk, and when she opened her eyes to look down at him, the irises blew pale violet.

Dukat sat up with a growl of frustration, reaching toward the bedside table to pull the  _ geit  _ from its case. He tried not to let his mind linger on the little yelp that Weyoun had given when he had pressed it to him. Resolved to focus only on sensation, he leaned back against the wall and drew up his knees. The head of his cock slid effortlessly into the _ geit’s  _ opening, and with a few shallow thrusts, he was sheathed completely inside it. His breathing slow and measured, he concentrated all his effort on relaxing his levator muscles, drawing his cock back inside and pressing the  _ geit  _ along with it, sighing through the deep stretch until the thickest point finally slipped into him and his body gripped hard around the  _ geit’s  _ neck.

For a few moments, he just let his head fall back against the wall, the dual sensations of being filled and enveloped washing over him, each intensifying the other as his cock strained against the confinement and forced him tighter, a rhythmic clench-and-push building of its own accord. As soon as he was accustomed to the sensation, he ran a finger over the dial, vibration jolting through him. His mind was blissfully blank for the first time in hours, just pure self-indulgence, a heavy tension that coiled and twisted in his gut and built in a steady crescendo until he couldn't help but buck up against that overwhelming feeling—

Not unlike having a hot, plush mouth around him, and probing fingers inside him.

Being both invaded and consumed.

The image of the Vorta on his knees flashed before Dukat's eyes again, and that was all it took. His ears rang, his thighs snapped tight, and he curled in on himself with a sharp gasp, climax rolling through him with more force than the  _ geit  _ could hold up to. It sprung free, his cock erupting after it, straining upward and jumping with each lingering burst.

When it subsided, it was all he could manage to stumble across the room for a damp towel and haphazardly wipe himself down. A proper shower would have to wait until he'd had the sleep he'd meant to be well into already. Bonelessly, he collapsed into his bunk and fell into fitful dreams of some hissing creature, coiling around him, growing ever tighter.


	7. Chapter 7

With the _Naprem_ safely docked and the extensive necessary repairs underway, Weyoun escorted Dukat and his crew to the surface of the planet below. By necessity, he had never thought of any particular place as _home—_ none of his incarnations had spent more than a handful of years in a single place. The _Tenak’talar,_ like the succession of ships before it, had been the closest thing he’d ever had to a true residence. Even so, arriving at Kurill Prime always felt special. The sight of the _kurilir_ in the sky, the white star blazing cold and bright and its fainter companion shining in warm gold at its side, stirred up a pang of nostalgia in his chest—with his clones being housed at a facility closer to his own sector, he hadn’t had occasion to return in the better part of a decade.

The thought of how long it had been stirred a sense of anxiety. He had planned to entertain the crew in Shi Lana, but what if the layout of the city had changed since he was last there? It would be humiliating if he got lost on his own homeworld. But if he _did,_ how drastically would he need to alter their itinerary to accommodate?

His fears were somewhat assuaged when their transport from the beam-in site arrived at the city's edge. It looked just as he remembered, vast forest giving way to his people's unique architecture—tall white towers, from which the spade-shaped levels spiraled outward like petals, the glass at their edges gleaming. It was a welcome change from the low, utilitarian, and heavily-fortified military structures he’d occupied more or less constantly for the past ten years.

Their destination was a complex on the river which divided Shi Lana from Shi Qaura, known as the Kama’ara District. At this time of year, the water was high, and would cover its lower levels, lapping at the edges of the broad walkways between buildings. The complex was designed in balance, symmetry, and color to please the senses. Though the Vorta couldn’t fully appreciate the effect, it was essentially a function of mathematics, and they understood the psychological implications of being surrounded completely by universally satisfying geometry. It offered a distinct advantage when entertaining leaders and diplomats.

Soon he could see the upper levels of Kama’ara’s central structure—part embassy, part resort, and part brothel—and, to the northwest, Lanaya Zhorat, the largest temple on the planet, and its most significant religious site. His chest felt fit to burst with the thought of finally setting foot through those gates again. The Cardassians, of course, were disdainful of religion, but even they would appreciate the tranquility of the gardens and the shrine.

As the transport slowed to a gradual stop, he stood with clasped hands to address his guests.

“Gentlemen, I can’t tell you what an honor it is to welcome you to our home,” he said. He didn’t remember the last time he felt so in his element, finally doing what he’d always been meant for. “And I can assure you, until your ship is repaired, you will want for absolutely nothing. I’ve arranged accommodations for this evening, but before we settle in, I thought it would be prudent for you to see a little of our culture firsthand. After all,”— _never threaten, but make them remember that you could—_ “we know so much about you, but you hardly know a thing about us. Well,”— _alienate them from your enemies—_ “except what you’ve heard from Federation propaganda, that is. But I think you’ll find,”— _make unpleasant realities sound ridiculous—_ “that reports of mindless, fanatical armies marching in lockstep through the labor camps are...exaggerated at best.”

It was all so thrilling—being a diplomat again, charming even the most reluctant foreign representatives and showing them everything the Dominion had to offer its loyal subjects. The Cardassians were unconvinced now, but he could already feel the tide turning.

A profile could only tell him so much. It was time to start testing the men themselves, finding weaknesses, alliances, rivalries, and perhaps most importantly, where he would fit. There was no need to manufacture the smile spreading across his face.


	8. Chapter 8

“He’s full of shit.”

“Damar!” said Dukat through clenched teeth, shooting a look at the Vorta’s back. “Is that any way to talk about our gracious host?”

Weyoun glanced wearily over his shoulder at them. “It’s quite alright, Dukat. I invite skepticism.”

Before Dukat could hold him, Damar rushed forward. “He has a title, and you’ll call him by it,” he spat.

“Forgive me... _Gul_ Dukat,” Weyoun said, spinning around to face Dukat and bringing their party to a standstill. He almost sounded sincere, if it weren’t for the impudent glimmer in his eyes. “Titles are difficult for me. I find them to be such a mouthful.”

Damar blanched at the pointed innuendo, but held his tongue. For his sake, Dukat tried not to laugh.

“Point taken,” he said. “No need for such formality between friends.”

Squeezing Dukat’s arm, Weyoun led the way forward again. “My thoughts exactly.”

Their leisurely walk took them to a wide river, and from there, to the path that lead up to the temple’s tall stone wall and arched gate. Its grounds were dotted with ancient trees, their leaves red, green, and gold, giving way here and there to cascades of delicate white flowers or heavy branches laden with large, pale pink fruits.

“You’re all free to explore as you please,” said Weyoun as they passed the threshold. “Just remember that these gardens are a place for _quiet_ contemplation...Oh! And, ah, please don’t eat any of the fruits or berries you may find. I’m afraid they’d make you quite sick. Dukat, I thought the shrine might be of especial interest for you. Care to join me?”

“Certainly,” Dukat said. He chose to ignore the way Damar rolled his eyes as he walked away.

As they neared the shrine, Dukat noticed a flash of blue light low in one of the trees—though it was gone in an instant, near where it had been, there was an animal. Small and covered in white fur, standing up on its hind legs to reach for a higher branch.

“What is _that_?”

Weyoun followed his eyes to the animal, and smiled. “A _zharatatha_ ,” he said. “They were brought back from extinction almost five centuries ago. They're not very active during the day, but the gardens are full of them.”

Moving quietly, he picked a ripe fruit from the tree and split it open before holding up one half in an upturned palm and bowing his head. The creature climbed down toward it warily, its nose twitching at the fragrant smell of the fruit. It reached out and took the offering, looking oddly-sapient as it dug a long claw underneath the flesh to remove the rind.

Now that it was closer, Dukat could see its shape more clearly—sleek, long-bodied with a wide, flat face and huge, round violet eyes that caught the light and flashed brightly, black markings on its head and limbs and at the tip of its bushy tail. Its ears were like a Vorta’s, long, connected along the side of the skull and extending down to the jaw, striped with parallel ridges.

It made a quiet chirping noise, as if in thanks, before bringing the fruit to its mouth.

Weyoun backed away, arms spread, and passed the other half of the fruit to Dukat. “Here. It’s considered a blessing when one accepts food from you. But—move slowly. They’re rather timid.”

Skeptically, Dukat approached it, mirroring Weyoun’s action, but keeping a wary eye on the thing—timid or not, it sported an impressive set of dagger-like claws. It lowered itself to all four legs and took a couple of slow backward steps, bristling slightly, before jumping to a higher branch and leaning out precariously, stretching its arm out to sweep the fruit from Dukat’s hand without ever putting itself within his reach. Sitting up on its hind legs, it held the fruit but didn't eat or chirp this time. It just stared at Dukat, whose feet took him backward of their own volition.

“Let’s go,” he said. There was something about the creature that made him feel deeply uneasy—it was an uncanny, vulgar thing.

He felt its eyes on him even as he followed Weyoun up the path.

Ahead of them, a building appeared through the trees, similar to those he'd seen in the city, but black, and more organic in its shape, which resembled a sort of clustering, flat-capped fungus. Dukat suddenly realized that, in all the reports of encounters with the Vorta, no one had ever mentioned seeing more than one of them at a time, but here, there were many, some in stiff, elaborately patterned suits like Weyoun's, others in gauzy robes and gowns. Some of them sported fuller chests and some were taller and broader than others, but most of them showed no clear outward sign of their sex, and they didn't seem to distinguish between male and female dress at all.

Dukat was about to remark on that to Weyoun as they passed through the shrine’s doors, but he was stopped by the solemnity of the atmosphere inside. The interior was shaped and fitted so that every step, every whisper, echoed throughout the open, interconnected levels, and the air was thick with a sharp, woody incense. Here and there, Vorta sat in front of low altars, alone or in groups of two or three, hands steepled in supplication or spread in praise, no priest or invocation, just all their soft prayers a reverberating collective murmur.

Weyoun led him to the uppermost level, a room no wider than his quarters on the _Naprem,_ with a single, low plinth at its center, supporting a slowly-rotating glass orb a meter across, filled with a viscous, metallic-amber fluid that dripped and rolled and folded into itself with the motions of the orb. A few Vorta sat around the edges of the room in silent contemplation. One of them seemed to be weeping.

“The Altar of Lamentation,” said Weyoun, his voice reverent.

Wary of disturbing the worshippers, Dukat asked as softly as he could manage, “What is it?”

“You’re familiar with the concept of religious relics?”

Dukat nodded.

“The sphere holds the preserved remains of a Founder,” Weyoun explained, never taking his eyes from the altar. “Early in the Dominion’s history, before the Jem’Hadar were created, Vorta companies would guard Founders who left their homeworld. This one was killed after a hundred Vorta gave their lives in its defense. It was one of our great failings as a people, but for the loyalty that company showed, their successors to were allowed to keep the remains. We pray here when we are in desperate need of guidance.”

With that, Weyoun stepped forward and dropped to his knees before the plinth, first bringing his hands together, then pressing them to the circle of stone that held the orb. He lingered there for long seconds. It was a strange sight—a room full of grown men sitting in the dark around a millennia-old corpse, hoping it might give them advice. Finally, Weyoun stood and led Dukat from the shrine.

“Your men are probably hungry by now,” he said as they emerged into the fresh air outside. “We should show them to their accommodations, don’t you think?”

Dukat smiled humorlessly. _We._ If the Vorta thought that his efforts so far were all Dukat required to consider him an ally, he would be sorely disappointed. “What did you pray for?”

“Pardon me?” Weyoun asked, brows creased.

“You said your people only pray at that altar when they’re ‘in desperate need of guidance’...So, what did you pray for? What has the imperturbable _Weyoun_ desperate?”

The Vorta laughed. “If you must know,” he said, “I prayed that you and your men would stop looking for conspiracies where there are none.”

It was a lie, but a clever one, and _that,_ Dukat could appreciate.


	9. Chapter 9

Setting foot inside Kama'ara brought back memories for Weyoun. It was where his passion for diplomacy had bloomed. Nearly five hundred years ago, his progenitor—a geneticist at the time—had been asked to accompany an ambassador to a gathering there. The Dominion had been courting a species facing an unfortunate rash of fatal birth defects, and a subsequent decline in population; his knowledge of the very alterations that would cure their prospective allies served as excellent leverage.

Watching the ambassador work had sparked something in him—apparently strongly enough for the Founders to take notice, because the algorithm placed him in diplomacy just a few years later. It had remained his preferred field—it wasn't lonely or tedious, as research had often been, and it wasn't as dangerous or ugly as field supervision.

The bridge into the district looked just as he remembered—wide enough for four men to walk abreast, gleaming white, its edges just meeting the surface of the rain-swollen river. Beyond it, five towers surrounding a sixth, with terraces connected by a web of narrow walkways. The buildings were all essentially the same—containing dining facilities and bathhouses and communal areas on the lower levels, and above, the offices of ambassadors and living quarters of varying occupancies—but each was geared toward a particular set of social priorities, with a slightly different layout and designed for different activities. Which one was used depended on the personalities of the individual guests and the values of their species.

The muted hedonism of the Cardassians was difficult to pin down, but Weyoun relished a challenge. He had chosen the central, tallest structure as their destination. It was in all ways a middle-ground between extremes—the accommodations spare enough to appeal to their utilitarian sensibilities, but indulgent enough to stir their underlying inclination toward sensuality, affording enough privacy to ensure their comfort, but with the option of a more communal experience left open.

The visit to the temple had given them a sidelong glance at the Vorta, enough to establish a preliminary trust, to make them doubt any preconceived notions they’d come in with, but that had only been a warm-up. Now, it was time for the real work to begin. In order to coax the crew into the mindset he needed, he had to facilitate their transition from representatives of their government to _men—_ with all the requisite vulnerability that implied.

An elaborate dinner was just the thing.

As soon as they entered the building, the Cardassians visibly relaxed—the temperature had been raised to a more suitable level.

“This way,” he said cheerfully, guiding them to the lift in the center of the vestibule. “We’ll be on the lower level for dinner. If you care to change out of your uniforms, I can have something more comfortable brought down.”

No one took him up on the offer, but that was fine. He hadn’t expected them to be particularly pliant.

The lift doors opened, and the crew filed in ahead of him, but as one of them—some lower-ranking officer, no one significant enough for his name to spring to mind—stepped forward, the bottom dropped out of Weyoun’s stomach. He had made a casual movement, the unthinking contact of a palm with the narrow edge of the wall, inches from the recess of the door.

“Stop!” Weyoun shouted, grabbing onto his arm and yanking it back. The crew stared, bewildered, and the officer shouldered him off with an indignant glare. “The repulsion conduit,” he explained, pointing out the stripe of faintly glowing blue just inside the recess. “They keep the cabin from impacting the walls of the shaft, but if you had touched it...Well, I don’t _think_ it would have killed you, but I’m sure it would have ruined dinner for you.”

“Terrible design,” he said.

“Tenek,” Dukat warned. “This man just stopped you from getting hurt and that’s all you have to say?”

It was the second time he had steered one of his men away from a slight discourtesy. Perhaps Weyoun had made more progress than he thought.

“Thank you,” said Tenek stiffly.

“In defense of the design,” Weyoun said, stepping into the lift, “a shock of that magnitude would be unpleasant to one of my people, but no more harmful than a strong static shock would be to you.”

“You seem to be quite a durable species,” said Damar. His tone was rather confrontational. “Is there anything you _aren't_ immune to?”

Weyoun fought to keep the smile on his face. “We _do_ bruise easily,” he joked, and then at the cold reception, “We have to navigate harsh environments and endure extremes wherever our work takes us.”

 _Present company included,_ he thought. He'd faced worse, but never with so much hinging on his success. Before, if he failed to convince a government to join the Dominion, the Jem’Hadar could deal with them, but in this case, there was too much at stake to be heavy-handed.

When the lift doors opened after what felt like an eternal silence, he ushered the Cardassians into the dining hall and excused himself. If they wouldn't do their part in shifting the tone, he would just have to give them a little encouragement. Around the other side of the vestibule was a locked door, which he let himself into. One of several dressing rooms for the resident hosts.

“Where are they?” one of the Vorta inside the room—Erim—spouted before he was even through the doorway. There were eighteen of them—outnumbering Dukat's crew by six—all lounging on the long benches or on cushions on the floor, some seeing to their hair or changing clothes or applying cosmetics.

“They're in the dining hall,” he replied. “Where's Keiyan?”

“Kitchen,” Erim said. “Hovering over the cooks to make sure they don't poison the guests again.”

“Again?!”

Erim laughed, waving a hand. “None of them _died._ And they signed the treaty.”

The flippancy of the hosts had always irked Weyoun. Sighing, he approached the row of narrow shelves against the wall, each containing one of a hundred of the Kama’ara Vorta's leisure-robes, not a one the same color or design. “I don't think the Cardassians would take that sort of thing so lightly,” he said, settling on powder-blue overlaid with an intricate, maille-like silver pattern.

As he was unfastening his coat, the door opened.

“Weyoun!” Keiyan—the District Administrator, a somewhat squat, long-haired Vorta—exclaimed, walking over to clasp Weyoun by the arms. “So wonderful to see you. I heard they had you out in the field with a border unit!”

“A...stimulating assignment,” he said haltingly as he pulled away to strip off the rest of his uniform. “What's the temperature in the dining hall?”

Keiyan gave him a quizzical look. “It's appropriate for the guests, if that's what you're—”

“Lower it,” said Weyoun. “My best efforts aside, they've been less than receptive...for the most part.”

“Clever,” Keiyan remarked, tapping at the control panel. “You’re wasted in field supervision—You should have been a host.”

A thin smile spread across Weyoun's face as he clasped the robe's magnetic fasteners with four soft _clicks._ “I don't know that I'd go _that_ far,” he said. “Take your people ahead to the hall. I'll be there shortly.”

He folded his uniform and placed it carefully in the empty shelf as the Hosts filed out, crossing to the mirror to study his reflection. He wished he knew how to judge it. He'd never given much thought to his own appearance—he was so rarely out of uniform. He tried to imagine dressing this way every day, being among his own people, all the interesting work of diplomacy coming to him instead of having to seek it out on a ship full of bloodthirsty Jem'Hadar.

The fields were closely related—so much so that hosts often became diplomats and vice versa—but to stay forever in that simpering first stage, to never craft the slow metamorphosis, bringing a species completely under the Dominion's control...He'd be bored to death within a month.

He threw the mirror one final parting glance before he left the room, padding barefoot through the vestibule to the dining hall, eager to see how the hosts were getting on with their work. It seemed oddly silent.

When he walked through the wide, open archway into the hall, it was apparent that the change in temperature had only worsened the attitudes of Dukat’s crew, and the hosts seemed at a loss to engage them. They sat, twelve Cardassians and eighteen Vorta, on plush cushions around the long low tables without uttering a word.

“Weyoun!” a host—Senis—half-gasped, like a drowning man within reach of shore. As he spoke, his panicked eyes seemed to convey some message he couldn’t put to words in present company. “Our guests were just saying that the room is a little cold for them. I think maybe you and Keiyan _overestimated_ the variance in temperature they would find acceptable. Would you ask Keiyan to raise it a—”

“That’s not possible, I’m afraid,” said Weyoun with a pointed look at Senis. _I didn’t overestimate anything. Do your job._ “The building simply wasn’t designed to run so hot. If we don’t cycle the temperature, the entire habitat control system could go down, and then our guests might as well sleep outside. It’s set to warm up in an hour, but in the meantime, gentlemen, perhaps a drink would help?”

The atmosphere remained funerary even as the hosts poured meticulously-replicated Kanar for the crew. Keiyan watched carefully to make sure that no Cardassian accidentally swapped his clear glass for one of the blue glasses set in front of the Vorta—they contained _lavna,_ a spirit the hosts were quite fond of, but that contained no small proportion of hydrazine.

“Since you seem so eager for conversation,” said Damar, “I can think of something to discuss. I haven’t seen a single elderly, sick, or disabled Vorta since we got here. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation for that?”

Tenek, emboldened by Damar’s insinuation, added, “No children, either. No one younger than twenty or older than forty.”

The hosts looked to each other, and then to Keiyan, puzzled.

“I’m sorry to ruin the mystery and intrigue for you,” Weyoun laughed, “but your premise is...a little faulty. Just in this room, there are Vorta between the ages of five days and nine-hundred years, depending on how you count. There are no elderly because we don’t undergo senescence, and there are no children because we gestate to maturity. As for the sick and disabled, we’re quite adept at genetic engineering. There simply isn’t much we haven’t adjusted for.”

There was silence for a moment, and Weyoun thought perhaps he _had_ miscalculated somewhere, that this entire exchange would do more harm than good in terms of the Dominion’s relationship with Cardassia, but then he saw a question, burning in the eyes of one of the junior officers. He held back admirably, glancing sidelong at Dukat, weighing stepping a toe out of line against his curiosity.

Curiosity won out, and he blurted, “‘Gestate to _maturity_ ’?”

Weyoun explained the cloning process to the rapt gil, and that was the nudge it took for the mood to shift. From there, conversation filled the hall; a little stiff, a little reluctant, granted, but by the time the kitchen staff came in with the first course, the rapport between the hosts and the crew had begun to warm. Both figuratively and literally—Weyoun’s gamble with the temperature had paid off, and over the span of thirty minutes, the Cardassians gravitated toward the warmer bodies of the Vorta, who were still uncomfortably hot and welcomed cool skin and armor to lean against.

They still had quite a way to go—Weyoun doubted they could earn much more in a single meal than the dampening of open hostility—but the door had been opened. A crew of Cardassians had sat down to a meal with the Kama’ara hosts, learning about one another and sharing pleasant conversation.


	10. Chapter 10

Several hours after the last dish had been cleared, Dukat’s crew had completely reversed their attitudes concerning the Vorta. They had clustered into groups of three or four and were locked in deep discussion, hands—or in some cases, mouths—wandering over their newfound companions and raucous laughter ringing out at regular intervals. To the last man, they were enthralled.

“It’s been a long day,” Dukat said, warily eyeing the situation. “I think you had better show us to our quarters.”

Weyoun clapped him on the shoulder. “Certainly,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “But you don’t want to be the one to ruin their fun. I’ll get you settled, and then come down to break up this little party.”

“Alright,” said Dukat, though he wasn’t convinced even Weyoun could talk them into leaving. He stood and stretched before throwing one last glance at Damar, who had just pulled a wide-eyed but still-laughing Vorta into his lap.

“It would seem my people have quite an effect on yours,” Weyoun remarked as they passed through the arched door into the vestibule.

Dukat gave his best expression of mock-surprise and amiability. “Imagine that,” he said.

“It's painfully obvious you still think of us as enemies,” said Weyoun, leading the way to the lift. He looked genuinely hurt. “The reality of the situation is that we _want_ to be allies. For better or worse, the wormhole has brought the Alpha Quadrant to our doorstep, and a threat to your stability is a threat to ours.”

“You'll forgive me for not taking you at your word,” Dukat replied as they began their slow ascent. “In my experience, favors like the ones you're doing for us come at a steep price.”

Weyoun gave an exasperated scoff as the lift stopped on a circular platform like the one below, but narrower, a set of doors to each side. He tapped his wrist against the scanner to the left of the upper set, and they opened with a chime and a faint hiss. “Absolutely not,” he insisted as they stepped into the room. “We only want to show you that friendship between the Dominion and Cardassia _is_ possible.”

Dukat momentarily forgot their argument as he took in the impressive accommodations. The room, with it’s high, arched ceiling, was surrounded two hundred and seventy degrees by a single curved window, the view of the city below and, beyond its borders, seemingly endless stretches of forest, its foliage a stunning mosaic of green, red, and gold, all blanketed in a silver mist, and finally, at the horizon, the double sunset just passing below the treeline. The interior mirrored the city’s sleek minimalism—cushions lining the floor near the windows, a low, round bed in the center of the room, and very little else to distract from the landscape. Not only that, it was a more comfortable temperature than anywhere he’d been on this planet so far.

As Dukat settled on one of the cushions, Weyoun swiped a hand over the glass, and it displayed a set of controls, glowing brightly in green. One, he slid down with two fingers, slowly dimming the glass to a smoky grey.

“That should be more comfortable to you,” he said, sitting cross-legged next to Dukat. He was silent for a moment, then sighed, his eyes shifting to the floor, lips pursed thoughtfully. “I suppose you _could_ say I have something of a personal interest in securing relations with Cardassia. I would _never_ say so, but I do find my duties as a field supervisor somewhat...tedious.” His nose wrinkled. “Patrolling the Idran sector, conducting raids. I was supposed to be reassigned after…”

“After?” Dukat probed.

“There was an _incident;_ it doesn't really matter,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The point is, I should never have been a field supervisor in the first place. Other than a brief stint in genetics research, I've always been in diplomacy and intelligence. But the Founders provide an algorithm for determining our assignments and somehow, six days ago, I was placed in field supervision again, in the very same sector. On the same patrol route, no less! For a moment—no more than a moment!—I almost began to doubt the wisdom of the Founders.” His expression turned grim as he said it, as if even a momentary _near_ -lapse in faith were unthinkable, before breaking into a broad smile. “And then your ship came through the wormhole, and suddenly it all became clear. I felt like such a fool! You see, the Founders chose _me_ to make contact with _you._ They wanted me to establish cooperation with Cardassia, and once I do, I'll be assigned Ambassador to the Cardassian government.”

“I hate to disappoint you,” said Dukat, “but I'm not in any position to speak to the Detapa Council on your behalf. 'Military advisor’ seems to be an empty title these days.”

Weyoun laughed, placing a hand over Dukat's. He could almost feel the intimacy of the touch and the setting finally cracking his resolve, especially as Weyoun spoke, his voice soothing and his eyes bright. “The Detapa Council? Forget about them. They've demonstrated quite effectively that they can't protect your people. Not just from the Klingons—disease, famine, the Maquis...No, Cardassia is ready for a change of regime. And who better to lead than the man who singlehandedly negotiated Cardassia's entry into the Dominion, securing food and supplies and renewed military strength? No _council,_ no Central Command. Just you, with a Dominion adviser and an entire fleet of Jem’Hadar ships to serve you.”

“A tempting prospect,” Dukat said, capturing the Vorta's warm hand to brush his lips over the soft web of his thumb. “Especially if that adviser were you.”

“Consider it done,” said Weyoun. “Of course, there will be certain details to attend to before any moves can be made. But that's a matter for another time. I should really check in on your men--”

Dukat caught him by the wrist before he could stand to leave. “I think they can take care of themselves, don't you?” he said, relishing the singular moment of visible panic in Weyoun's eyes, before he could replace his mask of perfect composure. “Besides, it’d be a pity if I had no one to share this view with.”

“Hm,” said Weyoun, his lips quirking at the corners. “Something tells me it’s not the _view_ you’re really interested in.”

“No,” Dukat murmured, taking Weyoun’s chin in his hand. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

He pulled him in, kissing him slowly, relishing the feeling of physical persuasion—a body tensing in his arms, resisting, and then, little by little, relaxing into his touch. Sliding a hand along slender ribs, barely wider than the span of his palm, and flicking open the fastenings of the robe before pushing it out of the way, off of Weyoun’s shoulders. He kissed down the Vorta’s cheek to his jaw to bite at the base of his ear and chuckled at the shudder he received in return. His hands met with bare, feverish skin, and the pulse under his tongue quickened.

Weyoun's body was exquisite—slight, but all yielding flesh, unmarked and smooth as glass, damp with a sheen of quickly-cooling sweat. Dukat broke away reluctantly to strip off his armor and shirt, and then swept the Vorta up again, catching his mouth in a crushing kiss and driving him to his back on the floor.

When he pressed Weyoun's thighs apart, Dukat paused, momentarily puzzled how to proceed. At first glance, there was nothing there but a perfectly smooth expanse of flesh, but on closer inspection, there was a short cleft along the midline, which he gently pushed a finger to, testing the waters.

“You're shaking,” he remarked.

“This isn't exactly my area of expertise,” Weyoun replied, low and breathless.

Dukat laughed. “Is that a _diplomatic_ way of saying no one's ever fucked you before?”

“On the rare occasion someone was interested,” he said through gritted teeth, “my usual method was always more than sufficient.”

Drawing back his hand, Dukat frowned. “I wish you had said something before now,” he said. “I would have made more of a special effort for the occasion.”

“That's not necessary,” Weyoun said, pushing himself up on his hands to sit. “Sexual intercourse holds no significance to my people. We can't engage in it amongst ourselves.”

Dukat almost hesitated, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Then all of you are…” he gestured downward, “like that? Males _and_ females?”

“Females!” Weyoun laughed. “Honestly, I will never understand the compulsion of sexually-differentiated species to sort us into their own categories. Yes, we’re all the same.”

“Hm,” said Dukat, shifting to lean against the window, looking out the opposite side, where the last rays of the white sun were fading out at the horizon, a faint aurora streaking the blackening sky. A moment later, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression,” Weyoun said. “We may not experience the same...release that you do, but we _do_ enjoy closeness. I didn’t want you to stop.”

This time, Weyoun initiated the kiss, enthusiastic but clumsy, climbing into Dukat’s lap and tangling hands into his hair, pressing flush against him as he did. Dukat couldn’t resist the implication of being _wanted_ by someone who, as a rule, didn’t want. He lifted Weyoun easily and stood to carry him to the bed, in spite of the fact that he was about twice as heavy as he looked like he _should_ be.

Lowering him into the plush bedding, Dukat pushed two fingers between Weyoun's lips, wetting them on his tongue before pressing them inside him. The opening gave way to a ridged passage, narrow, shallow, and blind. Dukat wondered if it was a vestigial remnant of a time before the Vorta were all clones. Cynically, perhaps, he thought it more likely that their “Founders” had intentionally left them just enough to serve this purpose.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, noticing Weyoun's knit brows and tightly set jaw.

“It's fine,” he replied with a reassuring smile. “Just unfamiliar.”

Dukat continued to stretch him—but kept an eye on his face, slowing down whenever he looked uncomfortable—until he finally felt him relax, and then pulled back and stood briefly to finish undressing. Weyoun's eyes followed every movement he made, though they were somewhat more heavily-lidded now.

Cradling the back of his head in a palm, Dukat eased his cock inside him, laughing softly at the little whimper that escaped the Vorta's lips when their bodies met against one another. That was the last sound he made, except for a forced exhale at each impact as Dukat began to thrust, too fast and too rough—his silence felt like a challenge. It was maddening; even as the pace built to a furious peak and Dukat could no longer hold back his own low, rough groans, Weyoun remained still and quiet, utterly unaffected.

A switch flipped—Dukat didn’t care anymore whether the smug creature beneath him cried out in ecstasy or in agony, so long as he _reacted._ He hauled Weyoun’s knees up over his arms, giving himself both the access to move deeper and the purchase to thrust harder. At first, the only change was in his expression—eyes shut tight, teeth bared and clenched—but it didn’t take long for the assault to overwhelm him. He let out a pathetic yelp, struggling futilely against Dukat’s greater strength. The sight of him was incredible—face contorted, a sheen of perspiration breaking out all over him, fists grasping around handfuls of the sheets, and his mouth open in a long, unbroken cry. Perfectly helpless.

“Please!” he whimpered, eyes snapping open, full of desperate confusion, as he clutched at Dukat’s wrists. “Please, you’re hurting me!”

“No, I’m _not_ ,” Dukat laughed with a sudden revelation; the way his eyes looked, black nearly consuming violet, his body contracting in a steady pulse, the deep flush spreading across his chest and neck.

Unmistakable, and _not_ agony.

He curled forward first with a low, stuttering exhale, and then his spine arched, head thrown back, as he split the air with piercing sobs.

It was long seconds before he went quiet and the shuddering tension drained from his limbs. He was boneless and leaden by the time Dukat gathered him up into his lap, stroking his damp hair and shushing him softly whenever a convulsion of after-shock rippled through him. For the moment, Dukat’s own release could wait.

“It would seem,” he murmured, lifting Weyoun’s chin in his hand and stroking a thumb over his lower lip, “that _my_ people have quite the effect on _yours_.”

He moved to separate the two of them, but slender thighs gripped him with an unexpected strength.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Weyoun hissed. He wore a dangerous expression that Dukat wouldn’t dare test, even if he’d felt capable. The Vorta’s stare was paralyzing, his pull positively electric as he began to move against Dukat, constricting all around him with each slow, agonizing undulation.

There was a flash of blue, and Dukat found himself flat on his back, as if something had struck him squarely in the chest, though there had been nothing. His heart leapt into his throat. There was no fighting the will that moved him. A white hand coiled his hair around itself and pulled back hard, exposing his throat for the other to grip as wet, febrile lips worked over the tender flesh beneath the ridge. That sensation, the weight of the body above him, the engulfing heat around his cock, the breathless fear at that strange, arresting power all bled together, merging into a reeling tension that danced along his nerves and surged through his veins like a poison, rendering him senseless of anything but his own aching need and the urgent, demanding moan Weyoun issued into his shoulder. He released Dukat’s hair and throat in favor of sitting upright, and their coupled motions quickly reached a desperate pitch. He hauled himself up and let himself fall over and over, opening himself more brutally even than Dukat had dared, bearing down at the nadir of each thrust to take him in completely, his flesh stretched to its limit.  

Dukat’s breath caught at the first sign of Weyoun’s nearing climax—a change in the tone of his cries, shorter and lower, rounded with a particular resonance that quickened Dukat’s pulse and pulled at something deep in his core, before he pitched forward with a tremulous shout, fingers scrabbling over Dukat’s skin, digging into his chest in search of solidity.

He had held out through the first, but this second clenching tightness pulled Dukat over the edge, the tension in his belly building to a violent crest and then, all at once, snapping and rushing from him with a guttural roar as he held the shaking Vorta down by the hips, burying his pulsing cock in him to the root, relishing his plaintive, keening exclamation at being filled to overflowing.

Weyoun’s limbs all buckled at once, and he crumpled to the side with a feeble groan, shivering in a cold sweat. His hypnotic dominance having evaporated, he suddenly seemed very small. Dukat drew him into a steadying embrace as the last, dwindling pangs washed over them both, fading over several quiet minutes into tender, sated sighs.


	11. Chapter 11

His first thought, once the room faded back in around him, was that this felt like being activated—his sense of time and place disrupted, his body alien and unwieldy, as if he were blanketed with lead, and his skin clammy and covered in an unpleasant grit.

His second was that this could be a dangerous vulnerability. It was disturbing how clouded his mind felt as he curled into Dukat's chest, how pacifying the man's touch was, fingers trailing up and down his arm.

After a few silent moments, he pulled away, almost just to prove to himself that he was capable of it, and sat up, collecting his robe from the floor and wrapping it around his shoulders with a deep sigh.

“Something wrong?” Dukat asked, the pads of his fingers tracing the length of Weyoun's thigh.

He forced a smile. “That was...a new experience. That's all.”

“What,  _ the Founders  _ wouldn't approve?”

“No,” he reasoned, hoping if he said it aloud he might start to believe it. “They wouldn't have made it  _ possible  _ if that were the case. And we’re encouraged to socialize with our allies.”

A companionable silence fell over them, but Weyoun still felt uneasy. What had happened  _ shouldn't  _ have been possible. In his mind, a recurring image flashed. He'd seen it dozens of times—the file of one Vorta or another, marked with their name and iteration, and below, in large blue letters,  _ kazhuthau.  _ Defective. The reasons given varied, but he'd seen plenty of instances of “disallowed physical, mental, or psionic abilities”. And he'd displayed all three in a single night. It terrified him. Not just the thought of being put down, but to shame all his predecessors, to condemn his successors to a lesser station, to be a stain on their progenitor's legacy…

The personal stakes were quite high even if he weren’t declared defective. He might very well end up reassigned to some distant sector, supervising Jem’Hadar combat training. Nasty business, since all their White was laced with a drug designed to increase aggression to an extreme. He shuddered at the very thought.

The right thing to do would be to report the anomaly to the sector overseer—let the compliance board sort it out and accept whatever happened—but procedure, in this case, didn't account for the importance of his mission. Would Dukat respond as well to another ambassador? Weyoun didn't think so; he'd barely noticed the Hosts at dinner, but Weyoun had a way with him. And after all, perhaps the Founders had a plan they hadn't revealed to the overseers or Weyoun himself. Wouldn't it then be  _ wrong  _ for him to interfere by reporting what had occurred? He decided the best possible move was to keep it to himself for the moment. If it continued...well, he’d deal with that if and when it was necessary.

He glanced down to find that, while he had been lost in thought, Dukat had fallen asleep.

Perhaps that was for the best.


	12. Chapter 12

Replicated Kanar always made Damar feel sick, and the Kanar out of the Vorta’s replicators was no exception. Even if it looked and tasted like the real thing, and felt the same on his tongue, it wasn’t; it was artificial, just like everything in this place—the Vorta themselves, most of all.

He stumbled into the lift and took it back up to the ground level, where he’d seen a public bath earlier in the evening. The water would clear his head and calm his stomach, and he doubted it would be occupied. All of the crew and their Vorta hosts were fast asleep in the communal bedroom where he’d left them.

As he exited the lift, he was unsteady on his feet, staggering against the door’s track and catching himself against the glowing blue conduit. At first, he felt nothing but a vague hum and an ache in his elbow, but after a second, the shock hit him full-force, locking his joints and throwing him to the ground. He lay there, sure he was dead or dying for a moment before the feeling gradually began to seep back into his body, all pins and needles and a dull ache behind his left ear, spreading throughout his skull.

By the time he managed to drag himself back to his feet, cursing Dukat, the rest of the crew, and every Vorta to ever live, but especially the one who had designed the lift, the tingling had faded, but the headache remained, compounded by the loud whirr of the lift climbing up and away and the too-bright lights of the vestibule.

Through the arched door to the bath, however, it was blessedly dark and quiet, the only light in the room a row of dim blue drying lamps and the auroras swirling in the sky outside the window. Even in his foul mood, he had to acknowledge that it was lovely. A single huge pool took up most of the room, a faint haze of steam rising from its surface, and cascading showers falling like rain flanked the entryway, beating softly against the stone floor.

He disrobed and slipped into the pool—a little on the cool side for his tastes, but not unpleasant. He had barely settled in when he heard the sound of bare footsteps on the wet stone. He followed them to their source and saw a Vorta silhouetted in the doorway. As the figure stepped into the room and hung its robe on the wall, Damar realized both that it was Weyoun, and that he seemed to be hurt. Angry bruises bloomed all over his skin, and there was a dark smear on his thigh—too dim to tell, but it looked like blood. Not a good sign.

“So,” Damar said. Weyoun startled at the sound, only just noticing him in the water. “Is Dukat dead? Was that your plan? Separate him from the rest of us and then kill him?”

He looked confused, but then shook his head. “ _Qe...Azhit hada hadar, teitha zhira waiyata dei._ ”

Damar stared at the Vorta. It took him a moment to realize that the shock he'd gotten from the lift must have taken out his translator. “I can't understand you,” he said slowly and loudly, pointing at his ear.

Weyoun pointed at his own with a smirk. “I can still understand you. And it's alright. I speak Kardasi.” It was strange to hear what he really sounded like—his tone somewhat more lilting and musical than it was rendered by the translator, heavily accented, but still as well-spoken. “I didn't kill Dukat, though _he_ was somewhat aggressive with me.”

When he sat on the edge of the pool to dip his feet in the water, Damar could see that the streak on his thigh was definitely blood, and definitely his own—it was a blackening purple. He sighed. This wasn't the first time that it had fallen to him to clean up Dukat's mess, but he never found the task any less distasteful.

“He can be careless,” said Damar, “when he decides he wants something. I'm sure he didn't mean to get carried away...Are you hurt?”

“Oh!” Weyoun laughed. “Goodness, no! Sore, certainly, but nothing that won't be better by morning. And it may seem unusual to you, but I found his behavior fascinating.”

Damar shot him a skeptical look. “How so?”

“Politics is my career,” he said, “and interspecies sexuality is my hobby. To find myself at the intersection of the two is a rare opportunity. Worth shedding a little blood for. Especially if it eases things between our peoples.”

Damar pulled himself up out of the water, if for no other reason than to keep himself from strangling the Vorta then and there. “I tried to tell him,” he spat. “Everything is a transaction to people like you.”

“A fair assessment,” Weyoun shrugged as he followed. Though his tone was nonchalant, a venom crept into his voice as he continued. “But I wouldn't say that you Cardassians are any different. After all, I've seen how Dukat reacts when he doesn't get the _enthusiasm_ he thinks he's earned. And you! How quickly you understood the situation and stepped in to offer your sympathy and comfort—I dare say you've had practice protecting your master like that. I _do_ wonder though...what you want from him for all that loyalty. As I understand it, unwavering devotion is a rare commodity among your people. It must be quite the prize you're after.”

Damar bristled, rounding on the Vorta with a warning glare. “If you so much as _breathe_ another word of what you're insinuating—”

“Incredible,” Weyoun smiled, his shining eyes tracking back and forth across Damar's face. “And he has no idea? How frustrating that must be for you...Ah. But of course,” he added quickly, lowering his eyes in almost-patronizing deference, “it's not my place to speculate.”

Damar looked him up and down, fists clenched at his sides. “That's the smartest thing I've heard you say yet.”

He turned and strode to the bench beneath the drying lamps, where he sat, watching Weyoun bask, eyes closed, underneath the showers. His hair, already somewhat disheveled, fell into a heavily-hanging curtain around his face, longer in the front than in back. Damar felt as if he were seeing something he shouldn’t—the Vorta, stripped of all his calculated finery, controlled elegance washed away, and underneath, where Damar had expected ugliness and vulgarity, there was only a man—sighing, thin and bruised, rounding his back into a stream of warm water.


	13. Chapter 13

After Dukat and his crew had beamed up to the _Naprem_ with a promise to meet for negotiations in the Kamiat nebula after a month had passed, and after Weyoun had submitted his report, he perched on a bench in the temple garden, leisure-robe discarded for the familiar structure of his uniform, tearing sections of a q’lava and throwing them to a pair of zharatatha across the path.

He watched them skitter away with the last of it, up into the branches of a thick-trunked tree and out of sight, and pulled his keepsake from the pocket of his coat. It had always been his habit to acquire trinkets like it—gifts to his successors, reminders from his predecessors. After all, he'd lived four lives before this one, all but the last of them quite long. So he'd started collecting small mementos of any moment that felt significant. The past few days had certainly qualified.

He turned it over in his hands, rubbing his fingers over the dry, smooth keratin. It was a shed scale sheath he'd found clinging to the sheets in Kama’ara, its diameter nearly half that of his palm, transparent at the edges, but smoke-black in the indentation at its center. By its size and shape, he guessed that it had come from the bony ridge of Dukat's spine.

He thought back on what he'd said to Damar in the bath— _Soldiers conquer by blood, but the wise reign from beneath._ An axiom well-worn by centuries of repetition, as familiar to his tongue as his own name, uttered to soothe a flaring temper, to remind his fellow Vorta that they were more civilized than their charges—above their petty shortsightedness and their ungoverned outbursts and all their strange appetites.

Except it wasn't true, was it?

What could he call the way he'd bitten his tongue and straightened his face, at first just to spite Dukat, and then to see how far he would go—but petty and shortsighted?

Wasn't it fair to call the way he'd overpowered Dukat and trapped him there—with an ability far beyond the simple psionic intuition and influence he should have possessed, an ability granted only to those who needed it to serve the Founders—an outburst?

And how else could he describe what he'd felt? The bone-deep yearning that had screamed along his nerves so staggeringly that, at first, he mistook it for pain, fear, his body being torn to shreds—but then had revealed itself as something no words could adequately convey, something that left him feeling hollowed out by a bottomless, single-minded voracity...there was nothing to call it but a “strange appetite”.

He did what he had resolved to do: he put the scale back into his pocket, and with it, every doubt that had crossed his mind for the past seventy-two hours.

He walked up the path to the shrine, empty at this time of day, knelt before the Altar of Lamentation, and spoke to the Founders, begging their guidance.

He stayed there, lost in an endless stream of silent prayers as the minutes stretched on in a litany of, _Forgive me, forgive me,_ and he contemplated his transgressions—Not premeditated, not even a deliberate act! His sins were hideous eruptions, removed from his own will or control. How could he be blamed? He had served the Founders unwaveringly for five hundred years; if anything could overwhelm his faith, then certainly the fault didn’t lie with him! Could the Founders really consider this single weakness so great a debt that it would wipe out centuries of absolute loyalty? Would they destroy a devoted subject for such a petty crime?

No. That would be the behavior of paranoid, fearful _men,_ not Gods.

His eyes opened, and he stared at the sphere and contemplated the remains of the Almighty. For the first time, he felt real doubt in everything he’d ever known.

From close behind him, someone called his name.

The blood drained from his face.

Though he had heard it only a handful of times in all his incarnations, there was no mistaking the warm, somewhat reedy voice.

He turned, sure his guilt showed on every inch of his face, sure the trembling in his hands was visible, that his pounding heart could be heard echoing through every chamber of the temple.

“Founder,” he said breathlessly, eyes locked on the figure in front of him. “You honor us with your presence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Conlang Credits*  
> -/geit/ - Adapted from /get/, "egg" (romanization changed for readability in context) - from tinsnip & Vyc's construction of Kardasi; @cardassianlanguage on Tumblr.  
> -/Ka'radan/ (Cardassian race) - from "The Cardassian Sourcebook" - Tim Cooke, et al.  
> -/Tenek/ (name) - I literally just smashed two names together from the list of Cardassian names on Memory Alpha. This isn't so much a credit as an admission of guilt.
> 
> *Other Credits*  
> -Beta by @itsweyounsburgernow, @howler32557038, and several anonymous heroes.  
> -Vorta anatomy inspired by "Diplomatic Relations", by semiautomatic.  
> -Cardassian anatomy inspired by the brave scientists who figured out how crocodilian penises work (really, it was a mystery until recently. If you have a strong stomach, there is a video).  
> -I never thought I would write a fic that required alien-crotch-inspiration credits.
> 
> *Dominionese Language Notes*  
> -/kurilir/ - the binary suns of the Kurill system; lit. "the stars". Individually, they are called /kurilnan/ ("gold-star") and /kurilayu/ ("white-star"); other stars can be called /zhitkuril/ ("away-star"), but all are /kurilir/ (similar to "sun" vs. "star").  
> -/Shi Lana/ - "Pious city".  
> -/Shi Qaura/ - "City on the river".  
> -/Kama'ara/ - lit. "without armor". Unfortunately similar to /kamara/, "false reproductive organ"; the word for a Vorta's puzzling lower anatomy. This near-homophone is an endless source of amusement to the Kama'ara hosts.  
> -/Lanaya Zhorat/ - The Temple of Shi Lana.  
> -/zharatatha/ - lit. "ancient animal".  
> -/lavna/ - lit. "bitter rain".  
> -/kazhuthau/ - defective; lit. "antisocial".  
> -/qe/ - a hissing noise or scoff. Considered a really bad swear. (the rest of this phrase is translated in-text)
> 
> -The Vorta have no gender, but are generally comfortable with (if somewhat bewildered by) being gendered by another species, and will often use their perceived gender to their advantage. The illusion is supported by a quirk of most universal translators: because Dominionese has only one third-person singular pronoun, the other speaker essentially assigns pronouns to individual Vorta based on their own gender biases. For example, in this text, all Vorta who are directly gendered are called "he" because the author is gay and has a bias favoring men in his weird porn.
> 
> *Fun Facts*  
> -Jeffery Combs actually does the swaying thing when he plays Weyoun. It's very subtle, but you can see it in several shots. And now you'll never unsee it. He probably just had uncomfortable shoes on or drank too much coffee or had to pee, but damn is it ever unsettling.  
> -There are 20 snake metaphors in this story. I did the first three unintentionally, noticed it, and then made a game of slipping one in wherever I could manage.  
> -According to my tumbr archive, I developed a sudden and severe lizard-dude fetish around March 20th, and by the 30th, I had started writing this fic. Which means I've spent two months of my actual life, of which I only get one, writing about lizard-man penis.  
> -This fic spawned my construction of Dominionese. Check out @dominionese-resource on tumblr for more of that. If you'd rather see me melt down in real time while writing shit like this, follow @mostlyhydratrash.  
> -I wanted to add a bunch more notes about culture and language and miscellaneous thoughts and backstory, but I'm trying to show restraint. Scream into the comments or my tumblr ask box for that stuff.


End file.
